Born with American promise, cursed with Irish luck

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From the outset I want to make sure to acknowledge the overwhelming amount of people I interacted with in Ireland who were kind and accepting of me and my family, who treated us as one of their own and who’ve left lasting memories for me to look back on and smile about as I move along with my journey through life. It would be inappropriate to list those names here, but know that in spite of some very contemptible treatment, I have fond memories of many that I encountered in Ireland.

After ten years of contemplation while recovering from my 30 years of experiences in Ireland, working through the anger, regret and hurt that has been seared into my soul by those experiences, I’ve decided that this blog will be the memoir of my life in Ireland and serve as therapy as I process and take stock of my life there. The motivation for this public airing of very personal matters was born out of my regrets of living in Ireland. I have many good memories of good times in Ireland, but the core reasons for why I lived in Ireland for so long are a personal tragedy.

Whenever I tell people during a casual conversation that I lived in Ireland, its met with admiration. Internationally, Ireland has a reputation for being an extremely friendly country to visit. This view, in my humble opinion, is pure unadulterated bullshit. Its no more friendlier than any other country and, given my experiences, I’ve come away with the knowledge that the Irish can be quite inhospitable if you get to close to them, as bigotry and begrudging is alive and well among many of its inhabitants. So, if anyone ends up being offended by these writings, you can pound sand for all I care.

It won’t be all doom and gloom here, but before I get to the soft squishy parts, I’m going to pick on my scabs, open up some old wounds and air some very dirty laundry. Once we get past that, there will be some pretty cool stories. So enjoy (tic)!